ABBARATH Read Free

little girl party dresses,” Max tells me.
    So this is where Max gets his little girl fetish from.
    “And does he like little girls?” I ask, my skin paling at the thought.
    “Only when they are grown up and dressed like you.”
    The philanthropist who likes little grown-up girls now smiles at me
    “What’s she doing here?” Alice demands. “This is a private family room.”
    Her father says, “Come now, sweetheart. Max tells me Gina is practically family by now. Isn’t that right, Max?”
    He has a deep voice. One that would not be out of place in an opera.
    “Certainly.” There’s a stiff formality to Max’s tone when he addresses his father. He puts his hand behind my back to shepherd me to the desk. “Dad, this is Gina Wesley. Gina, this is my father, Russell Devlin.”
    A frisson of nervousness passes through me. I can hardly walk, especially when Alice is glaring at me out of hateful eyes. My hair is done up in two ponytails, both sprouting from the sides of my head.
    My feet are shod in black Mary Jane shoes and my white beribboned stockings are up to my knees.
    I believe I might have worn an outfit like this when I was eight.
    In church.
    When I was a better person.
    “You’re very, very pretty, Gina,” Russell observes as I approach.
    I blush. This does not go unnoticed by everyone in the room.
    Russell pats Alice’s rump, a gesture that strikes me as unusual. She is after all older than Max.
    “Off with you now. I want to have a look at Max’s girlfriend.”
    Even the way he talks to her is unusual, as if she’s still a little girl. My anxiety intensifies.
    “She’s nothing special, Dad,” Alice retorts as she reluctantly slides off his lap.
    “Jealousy doesn’t become you, sweetheart. Come here, Gina, and let me have a look at you.”
    “Go on.” Max prods me in the back.
    I go around the large desk, which is cluttered with documents and bric-bracs, including a table photo of a little girl in pigtails whom I recognize as a childhood version of Alice. Surprise, surprise, she’s actually smiling in her photo – something I haven’t seen much evidence of since I arrived.
    Russell is seated on his high-back leather chair, whose reclining back squeaks as he leans back to view me in all my party frock glory. He’s a giant of a man, with long limbs and a waist that resembles Max’s tapering one.
    “Very, very pretty.” He holds out his large hands. “Come here, Gina.”
    I’m not really sure what to do, but I do know that as a guest, I cannot rudely decline. But just gazing at this magnificent specimen of a man – a man in every sense – makes me go weak in my knees.
    More so than his sons, he gives off the impression of instant and absolute command. His eyes are crinkled at the edges with laugh lines and his skin is weathered. I suspect he is a man much used to being outdoors.
    I take two tentative steps towards him. He reaches out and grasps my hand.
    “Sit here, Gina.” He pats his lap, recently warmed by Alice.
    Alice hisses with exasperation.
    I place my buttocks on his lap. My hands tremble a little. I can smell his aftershave – a musky scent that sends shivers through my body. His skin is very warm through his shirt and pants, and I am very aware of his overwhelming maleness, and of his hand on my back as I snuggle closer to his torso in a bid to maintain my balance.
    He adjusts my body orientation so that I’m sitting partially sideways, with my legs dangling off his right thigh. The armrest prevents me from totally being sideways. His hand on my back slides up and down my bodice, stopping just above my buttocks. My skirt is flouncy and very much in the way of more contact.
    My pulse is fluttering at my throat. I swallow a hard lump.
    Max clears his throat and remarks, “Gina has very nicely agreed to submit – ” he pauses at the significance of the word “ – to the whole family.”
    “Is that right, Gina?” Russell turns my dolled-up face to his. His nearness